


Tale of maidenly woe

by queefqueen



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-11 13:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7054108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queefqueen/pseuds/queefqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Azgalia always had been different from other maidens of her folk. She found no pleasure in the pain and death they liked to inflict. Once her brutal brother gives her away in marriage to a vanquished foe to establish an alliance, will she find acceptance and love? Or will she her life continue to be a stream of suffering due to the prejudice held against her folk? Would her husband – the other half of this arranged marriage - find a place in his heart and bed for her, or will she sleep in the kennels, weeping into the hounds’ furry flanks?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Different than all other maidens

Azgalia

Since she had been a wee lass Azgalia felt that she was different. Well she looked pretty much the same as all those other orc lasses, with swarthy skin almost without warts, slanted eyes giving a seductive, feline-like air to her tilleul orbs and attractive bow legs. She was tall for her sex, almost five feet tall. Her leucocratic tresses were relatively rare yet not unheard off. What made Azgalia different was her sweet character, however. She found no joy in torture, she killed quickly and efficiently. When hunting or given a slave condemned to execution, she got no jollies from screams of pain or convulsions. Azgalia always went for the jugular, ripping out throats or plunging implements of death into beating hearts as to bring a merciful swift end. Otherwise she spent her days as was becoming of a highly born orc maiden, bathing, dressing, undressing, making exciting underwear ...

Oh yes, there was one more difference between her and her sister she-goblins. She did not like the leather underwear which had been the rage among orc kind for the last three ages. Azgalia liked plain cotton knickers. The first examples she acquired from looting a mannish caravan. Later, at her instance, her brother the high king of orcs established a trade route to adventurous dwarrow and mannish merchants. Those brave souls, boldly taking coin from all races of Arda in an example of progressive equal-opportunity trading, brought cottons and silks and satins to the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains, where the Kingdom of Angmar had been in times past. She cut the cloth herself, as neither mannish nor dwarrow designs give full credit to her figure. She wore satin pants on days when she felt like pampering herself, and old ones, regardless of cut or material on her critical days.

She wore a breast-band solely as chaffing protection. Her perfectly round pert breasts were firm enough as not to require support for everyday activities. Azgalia's bosom needed support only for strenuous physical efforts, like sports or hunting or executions, and then she wore figure shaping (flattening, in her case, as she was a modest girl at heart) vests of warg leather.

This sweetness of Azgalia's character made her brother Bolg turn to drink in despair. Whatever puppies he brought to her to torment she broke the necks off immediately, refusing to make them suffer. Being a Good Brother – their father, Azog, had been murdered by dwarves – he wished to see her wed well. But all suitors were turned off by the softness of her ways. All those dashing young goblins never took her out on a second date as they did not expect her to bear strong sons. Not that there was anything wrong with her figure, no! She was not fat or thick or heavy or big boned or anything like that, nor too skinny, she had just the right amount of feminine curves. And the piercings in her melichrous nipples made her cool to hang out with. Had it not been for her gentle nature, that is. What had worried the prospective orc-beaus that a goblin lass of such sweet disposition would bear sons who would be wimps and would not find liking in male behaviour. Such off spring would like to sing, wear nice and matching clothing, dance, maybe even – here shudders run along the curved spins of conservatively minded orcs – not find pleasure in mating with the other sex but their own ... eww! Or so they thought. In typical misogynist disdain for female autonomy they did not consider what sort of daughters they might have, certain that brutal orcish child rearing would infuse them with traditional values, mould them in line with society's expectations.

Yet every time Azgalia tended to her cuts, welts and bruises Bolg gave her after she had chased away another suitor by wishing to dance and sing in sun-splashed mountain meadows bedecked with flowers, instead of bringing a slow and painful death to some creature, or – even better – a round of initially innocent wrestling turning into a flesh rending spasmatic grope-fest culminating with frenzied coupling of their slick covered bodies, the orc maiden knew that Bolg really, really cared for her. He just showed it in his own, peculiar fashion.

**November 2941, the gore soaked southern approaches to Erebor**

"Sound the retreat!" – Bolg bellowed to his horn and drum ensemble.

He gleefully rubbed his hands together. He had found a sucker to sick his lil' sis' upon! His work here was done.


	2. And they met

 

Fili

"What was I to do?" the dwarrow prince wailed. – "He had me by the balls! Literally! He had his hand in my pants and I could feel his calluses on my ball sack!"

The son of Dis skipped the previous groping around in his pants by the orc – a male dwarf would sooner die than admit to his ball sack shrivelling with fright to the point of non-existence.

Balin continued to glare at the century younger dwarf. He wanted to beat him down and guilt-trip into certain concessions. But the worm had turned and the long nosed example of the species suddenly rose and went all up and personal with his elder cousin.

"You still got what you wanted!" – he snarled into the face of the elder son of Fundin, a visage graced with an impressive nose, a cross between aquiline and potato shaped.

"You somehow convinced the Longbeard Council that it was me who should get Erebor instead of Dain. Now you have the run of the treasury as Thorin's Company Chief Executive and Financial Officer!"

Suddenly enlightenment struck the prince of the Khazad. He staggered back, wide eyes, his nostrils flying in the wind.

"No ... fuck no ... you didn't ... but you did ... fuck ... you used Bilbo's share of the hoard for bribes, did you? You greedy git ... The silly bugger didn't care about the money, took two small chests with him ... so that's where the remainder went ... "

The white haired scout of the Company had the grace to adopt an ovine facial expression ...

Once Fili had done his ancestors justice and connected the dots Balin went for brutal honesty:

"Yup, I put that money to good use. Your line is out of the order of the succession, though, not being directly through a male. Plus the little matter of you marrying a rakh ...".

"What was I to do?" – the conversation had gone full circle and returned to its starting point. "Not only it was a say yes or die situation, I had to say yes. I had to make that sacrifice! I had sworn to protect Erebor. And it was - "marry my lil sis and I won't destroy Erebor, stunty!".

Blondie inhaled and continued.

"At that point Thorin had fallen, Kili had fallen, the gobbos had everybody surrounded and at their mercy! Bolg promised not only that he will leave the field and the Mountain to us, but not attack while she lives."

The blonds' eyes hardened with conviction in having made the right choice.

"I had to say yes!" – the younger son of Dis half growled, half whined.

"I still don't know her name ..." - this was definitely a whine now.

)()()()()()(

"Actually having Fili marrying a non Khazad is a boon." All eyes fixed on the ham fisted healer and midwife.

"With cervixes being the bottleneck to population growth, we don't waste a good dwarrow lass on the twit. They end up marrying upright dwarrow ..."

"Like you, eh? Dirty old codgers like you or that drooling lecher your brother?" – the irreverent Ori sneered.

"No, no." Gloin – ignoring the insult – interjected. "Not us! Our sons!"

"Quiet!" a meaty fist hit the table. As it was the strongest dwarrow of the company at the other end of the fist, Dori, everybody shut their mouth.

"Oin and Gloin, they are right" – Dori resumed the discussion.

"Not us. We are too old. Out of those of us who are bachelors maybe wee Bifur could marry – being only 132. The others are too old. But for those who have children - the sons, the daughters – or, in the case of those who do not – their nephews and nieces – these can now marry well, very well, once they become nubile."

Dori flashed a small but satisfied smile.

"Previously we only had our breeding and the shirts on our backs to speak for us, hence so few of us managed to marry. But now, with our shares in the Hoard, we can found lordly Houses! Will will become Ancestors!"

Azgalia

Azgalia was blessed with the innate ability to be able to eat anything she wished – and stuffing herself to the gills too – without putting on any weight. A good example was her habit of half a pound of fried bacon a day failing to put anything on her hips. Or anywhere else, for that matter. This gained her the heartfelt hatred of her entire age cohort at Gundabad. The female part of the age cohort, that is. The up side – besides being able to give in to food cravings – was that she could ride a warg in spite of her height. Warg riders – even though chosen for light build as well - typically ended at four feet or so, hence her almost five feet was another piece of testimony that she was of lithe, svelte and what not graceful constitution.

Azgalia looked at the dwarrow assembled for the wedding ... errr ... handing over ceremony. She had never seen so many live dwarves in one place before. She noticed that quite a few had big noses. Like the seals she had seen frolicking amidst the ice floes and on the beaches of the Bay of Forochel. Some of them - older ones in special - had big and red noses. Meaning the older dwarves, not seals. She wondered if the dwarves also had nose sacks which they could inflate like balloons – as she had seen the seals do - to gain females. She recalled how the bulls waved their inflated sacks - bright reddish pink - at one another to show who was more butch. And to impress the cow, too. The gentle orc maiden glanced at her betrothed - he had a big nose, but not red. Azgalia pondered - maybe the noses got red with age? Making a male more attractive to ... how were dwarf females called, anyway? Looking at an elder with a white mane and a particularly impressive and bright red schnozzle the thought - "Does he have many cows?" passed her mind.

Then she remembered what they say about males with big noses and blushed at her naughty thoughts concerning her betrothed's doubtlessly majestic dwarfhood. And doubly so - besides being well endowed in the nose department he also was a king, tee-hee. And then she gagged as she remembered her hen night.

Although none of the bitches claiming to be her Best Friends Forever had agreed to be her handmaidens at Erebor, they still held a "farewell to maidenhood" party for her. At which all those already experienced with sexual congress passed on gruesome tales of their "first time". Young mothers added their garish, gruesome and gore soaked stories as well. This left Azgalia with firm belief that if she survived "being ripped apart like a wish bone" and "spitted like a pig" at her deflowering then she was destined to die in childbirth. She brought her delicate hands to her mouth and her tilleul gaze fixated upon her future husband's nose. The heartbeat in her ears rose to a drum-like beat, drowning out all other sounds and deafening her ... her vision began to constrict, darkening at the edges, her peripheral vision all but disappeared. The whole world, like water in a funnel, conflated into at a single schwerpunkt. All that she could see was the NOSE. She fainted.

AN:

I forgot to add that I will be using a mix of book verse and movieverse, with a flavouring of headcanon. I kept Oin as a midwife and healer, for instance, as that is hilarious. Imagine HIM checking dilations ...

Ori, however, is not a "shy little scribe", but a bully with a sadistic streak.

A dwarf is an adult at 40 but married at around 100. Both sexes. Cultural reasons i.e. go and ask Tolkien "why?".

I keep the book seniority, with Fili as the younger. This does not matter much, as Kili is pining for Ered Luin and Thorin has joined the Choir Invisible.

The ages of Company members are as those given in the Appendixes to LotR, with Fili and Kili switched around. Can be found at tolkiengateway, for instance.

Kili and Fili are NOT Thorin's heirs, as nowhere does Tolkien make such a statetment. Dain is. Dwarves use male exclusive primogeniture. But Balin bribed the Council of the Longbeard clan to pass a work around for the principle of "women do not inherit" - indeed they do not, but their SONS do – and snatched Erebor for Fili. Paying Thranduil to post 500 archers on a hill above Dain's camp also helped. Greedy gits those elves are ...

But Dain still gets to be the head of the Longbeards. There is no connection between lordship of Erebor and being the head of the Durin family.

Rakh – racial slur for goblins.


	3. Beefcake or softie?

Fili

Fili could not tear his eyes away from his betrothed. She was ... perfect. She was ... beautiful. From her legs, curved like the sabres used by her people, through her slanted narrow eyes, sallow skin, bald cheeks and upper lip, to her dainty, flat nose with upturned tip. The blond King of Erebor did not mind her being half a head taller than him. He swooned. His father caught his elbow and helped him catch his balance.

Bolg

Seeing both the dwarf and his sister sway on their feet – Azgalia actually would have dropped to the ground had he not supported her - Bolg groaned inward. Did they find one another so ugly? He knew that his sister was plain as they come yet still he felt offended by the stunty's reaction. He could understand her though – the dwarf was hurl-across-the-room ugly, the hairy tree-stump he was. And besides ugly-as-fuck, was he a weakling too? Maybe he had made a wrong choice of husband for Azgalia after all, king of Erebor or not?

As he passed the limp form of his sister to the dwarves nonetheless he felt relief. Azgalia would not had survived being married to a really manly orc. The weakling was out of his hands, he no longer needed to protect her. He had made it clear enough to the dwarves – he will keep the peace until her NATURAL death. If she had any dworcs with the ugly stunty then these would have to fare amongst the fat, hairy runts on their own. But he would gladly take any nephews in. Such rare half-breeds were powerful fighters. He would even take nieces in - blood was blood ...

Dis

The party approached the still being repaired gates of Erebor. Piercingly blue eyes above an aquiline nose followed their progress. Those eyes were hot with fury. Dis was very, very unhappy. She had no say over her sons going on the quest. They were well of age and had left her skirts over forty years ago. Actually, having one of them survive her loopy brother's quest was a relief – in her heart of hearts she was hardening herself to lose them both. Her crazy brother and that bunch of never do well cousins! All seven of them! A wonder that even two of them were married – no sensible dwarrow lass would waste a second glance on losers like them!

Dis sighed and drew her lips into a tight line.

She and Wili both were astonished that the scheming Balin had seated Fili on Erebor's throne. Yet they were appalled at the ... rape of dwarrow traditions! Who had ever heard of inheritance through the female line? It was always the eldest of the sons – or the nearest male relative who inherited titles. Such nonsense was found amongst some mannlings, if she remembered correctly, though. Tradition or not – feeling uneasy about it or not – this still was an enormous elevation of her family. Fancy that - her son the King of Erebor! A good thing that Thorin had not married after all ...

Appalled as they had been over the disregard to tradition and cousin Balin backstabbing cousin Dain's claim to The Mountain, the couple was absolutely aghast at the arrangement with Bolg. Her son and some orc bitch? Mahal and Yavanna protect! No peach fuzz cheeked grandchildren for her from Fili, then.

She sighed.

And surely, should he bed her – shudders – such children would not inherit? She pondered that issue. Maybe the ... ugh ... dworcs ... being excluded from the line of succession could be written into the marriage contract? This idea finally made Dis relax her mien - even if minimally. Finally something positive. And with the new fangled idea of "sister sons" being in the line of succession, that would mean that Fili would be followed by Kala's or Fala's son. Dis even made a shadow of a smile under her moustache - as potential mothers of potential heirs to Erebor, the value of her daughters on the marriage market went through the roof!

Watching the warg riding orc maiden approach the gates an idle thought floated across the dwarf matron's mind – "how long will the bitch live?"

Azgalia

Gazing at her husband through her sparse eyelashes Azgalia felt "the heat" upon her. It was a sensation her married female friends had described. Her ... womanly core throbbed with ... something. She had no name for it yet. Fili made her daydream of bodily union.

Unlike orc males, whose strength came from wiry muscles, her husband was a beefcake! There was soooo much of Fili. So broad chested! Arms like her thighs or thicker! Speaking of her thighs, she was rubbing them together under the table, feeling the guilty pleasure of the pressure, the warmth of her leather clad legs rubbed against one another.

She discovered that looking like a goat - all that hair and beard! - also was a turn on! How she longed to get her hands on his impressive mane, run her fingers through his beard, let her fingers play with his whiskers, to ghost her fingertips over his full lips hidden in all that bush ... hidden just like her own lips _there_ ... she giggled at the thought and licked her lips, making them glisten in the torchlight and - unbeknowst to her - setting Fili's loins on fire.

Nevertheless their wedding night was a disaster

All was fine up to a point. They were into heavy petting by that stage and Fili remembered his brother Kili bragging of his exploits with some ginger haired lass in Laketown. So he first dragged his tongue over her collarbone, from the hollow of her neck almost to shoulder, then back again, this time dragging his sharp teeth and leaving welts over her delicate skin. Azgalia's breathing began to turn into panting, her hand roved over his ripped abs and slipped downwards, first brushing against and then grabbing at his gnarled club. Pawing at his girth her panting turned into shrieks of fear as she tore herself away from his sweat slick torso and clambered to the furthest corner of the bed. She held up a jade throw pillow, its edges embroidered with intricate geometric patterns in finest gold thread, with tiny diamonds in every third knot, like a protective shield.

"We. Muzd. Make. Baby." Azgalia bawled suddenly. Flashbacks of "advice" from her hen night unmade her completely . Pointing in the general direction of his doubly majestic and threateningly erect dwarf hood she wailed - "Yu want poke ... thingy ... in my foof ... an' ... an' ... hurd me ... waaaaagh!"

She continued her bawling into the pillow, her ramblings now completely incoherent. She cried herself to sleep curled around a pillow. She was not cold, though, as once sleep had crept upon her Fili had floated a duvet on top of her. He respected her autonomy and did not tuck her in, however. His mother had taught him better than that! Looking at her delicate form under the fine fabric of the duvet he wistfully wondered if there would come a day when she would consent to be tucked in? He always got a warm, fuzzy feeling when he tucked in his sisters. The King of Erebor desperately yearned to pet and caress the beautiful orcess which unexpectedly had become his wife. With a gaze full of tenderness, longing and hope Fili seated himself in the comfy armchair and tried to get some sleep, watching over his delicate flower.

AN:

Vili is the most popular name for Dis' husband, so why reinvent the wheel? I named mine specimen "Wili".

In this AU Fili's father is alive. Why not?

And he has two younger sisters – Kala and Fala – ages 71 and 63 respectively. Again, why not?

"How long will the bitch live" - a good question. In my headcanon orcs are divided into common orcs who live at 1,5 times the human rate. This means they usually begin pining for the fiords at 40-50 years of age, as a 40 year old goblin is the equivalent of a 60 year old Man. And there is orc aristocracy, descendants of the Fallen Maiar who took upon orc bodies in the 1st Age and were stuck in them. Even though over time they intermarried to some degree with goblins and their Maiarness waned on its own too, they still live several lifespans of a common orc. They also shun exogamy as to preserve the purity of their bloodlines whenever possible and thus pass on their extended lifetimes to their offspring. Bolg and Azgalia had been wee babes when their father Azog was struck down by Dain Ironfoot at the Battle of Azanulbizar in 2799. So they are now about 150 years old and can look out towards at least another hundred.


	4. Misread signals

**A few weeks later**

What he had felt and glimpsed of his wife's body made Fili appreciate illustrated literature even more. Now knowledgeable – to some degree – of the sensations provided by touch, sound and smell during moments of intimacy between lovers Fili could add more context to the illustrations and text. He could now fill in the blanks, cross the T's, join the dots, etc. Some scenes gained an entirely new meaning or unexpected depth.

Illustrated literature always had been an important element of Longbeard culture. Its relevance for the formation of young dwarrow led to its banning under Durin II, with the Thirty Ninth Holy Synod at Gundabad during the reign of Kraken III tightening the wording of pertinent Canon. For over 5000 years Holy Doctrine now stood at "they who draweth or writeth illustrated literature, or copieth it, shall be cut off from among their people and die in exile, swallowed up by the land of our enemies" for the supply side, while the punishment for the demand side was "they who scrolled scrolls, or turneth the pages of bound tomes of illustrated literature by their own hand, are Unclean for sixty six days. On the morn of the sixty seventh day they are to stand before the temple and present the priest with a fattened bullock, or two fattened rams, or a dozen chickens or a score of doves for Sin offerings. Atonement of Sin may be fast traketh and shortened to thirty three days. On the morn of the thirty fourth day they are to stand before the temple and present the priest with six units of silver, weighted and measured on reputable scales".

In light of the above it should be no surprise that Fili turned the pages using an certain implement which was an indispensable element of dwarrow dress for both sexes. This was a thin knife with a sharp point. Scripture was clear - "by their own hand". He was a pious dwarf and being Unclean was a bore, particularly for a King. The desire to insert the knife as to turn only one page at a time did wonders for the development of eye-hand coordination, a great boon for the arts and trades the dwarrow also found pleasure in.

Such literature was, naturally, contraband. The most interested confiscated examples were sent to the King to arouse his Just Wrath at the Wrongdoers. It was good to be a King, Fili smiled while figuring where is up and down in a particularly striking illustration.

The town of Dale, which the Erebor dwarrow originally assisted in setting up as a production centre for illustrated literature, was ramping up output quickly. There were no lost skills to reacquire, only the capacity of producing the necessary volume. The skills had been preserved owing to the existence of a small, lucrative and very, very secret market for dwarrow style illustrated literature in the Halls of the Elvenking. There it was considered to be the ultimate, naughtiest possible kink. Even in the most blasé of Mirkwood's social circles, where maybe only confession to worship of Morgoth would make much of an impression upon one's colleagues to shamelessness, the gifting of Dale made illustrated literature provided one with social advancement points.

**Sometime later**

Fili walked towards his wife's chambers humming with good cheer. Illustrated literature had given him an idea on how to win his lady's favour and he was going to test it. He was fully equipped for the task and the anticipation of the rewards put a bounce in his step. The contents of his pants wriggled as if blessed with a life of their own.

**Moments later**

Seeing Fili extract a puppy from his pocket and set it on the floor with an expectant look to his eyes broke Azgalia's heart and made her almond shaped taupe eyes brim with soon to be shed tears. She knew what he expected of her. He was the same sort of cruel MALE as all those orc boys! He wanted to watch her tear out the little dog's limbs one by one, then the tail and – if still living – to slit its belly and extract various vital organs with her slender fingers. While doing so she was expected to belly chuckle evilly – MUAHAHAHA! That was a turn on for the brutes! Once she had finished with the pup Fili would pounce her and poke his thingy in her hoohoo.

Her face crumpled and she sobbed. The puppy was sooooo cute! Her delicate nostrils streaming snot all over the front of her celadon tunic Azgalia snapped the mutt's neck and threw the limp and lifeless lithe body at the dwarf, screaming "You monster!".

After some heaving sobs she screamed again – "You are as heartless as all those orc boys!" and she ran to her room, threw herself on the bed and cried herself to sleep missing her supper, dinner and midnight snack.

Fili was sick at what he had just witnessed. He staggered outside and barfed in the space between two carven images of mythical beasts lining the corridor. "What a monster" he thought of his ... eww ... wife. The puppy was to break the ice between him and Azgalia which had appeared after their wedding night. He had never expected the expression "breaking the ice" to literally mean the breaking of anything physical. He hurled again, the discharge staining his russet doublet. And he even wept a bit over the lifeless little body in the pocket of his zinober trews. After snorting out the remaining puke from his faramiresque shnoze he plodded towards the waste removal chutes, his mind recoiling at the memory of the smooth move – doubtlessly born of long practice - with which Azgalia had done the deed. Yet something gnawed, like an orc at a juicy bone, at his mind – why had she gone all screamy-weepy on him? Were the hysterics typical of goblin female mood swings? Or was she upset that he had given her only one puppy? He shuddered ... Would she expect a puppy to kill every week? Could he stretch it out to one a fortnight? One a month? Would she accept kittens as substitute?

**Several days later, morning**

"Azgalia?" – Fili asked of his wife, still in her chambers and nightclothes, thinking about what she wanted to wear this day.

"Yes?"

"Do ... do .. do you ... need ... another" – Fili stopped stammering but swallowed – "another ... puppy?"

Azgalia was stricken by his words, he could tell. She bit her lower lip – what an endearing habit – and looked at him with eyes round with surprise. No being keyed to female autonomy Fili missed that the wide-eyedness was from terror, not surprise.

To overcome the awkward silence Fili decided to suggest a ride together.

"Or maybe I could fetch your warg?"

At this the orcess lost it.

Azgalia screamed:

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOT FLUFFY!"

And threw herself at her husband, pounding him into the carpets covering the polished granite floor.

**An hour later**

With words cold as the icicles on the roof of the cavern housing the throne of Erebor Dis asked her dishevelled and bruised son:

\- Why have I just seen your wife riding her warg out of the Mountain with nary a stitch on her back?

On one hand Dis was ecstatic that the ugly orc bitch was gone, but on the other hand she was appalled by her son's treatment of a female. The dwarrow kept their scarce and precious womenfolk in high regard, a regard so high that they locked them up and rarely – if ever - let them out of their homes. And in such instances dressed as males. Dressing the dwarrow lasses in sacks had backfired as it inspired too much curiosity from other races, interest in their women being expressly the reaction the Children of Mahal wished to avoid. Chasing a wife out of the home dressed in her shift was absolutely not cricket! Such behaviour was deplorable! He needed a good talking too and a cuff behind the ear, grown up or not!


	5. In the Woods of the Elvenking

**An hour after the “do you need another puppy, darling?” disaster**  
Azgalia tore through the streets of Dale on Fluffy’s back. Seeing her barely clad state the populace turned their eyes away or down as a sign of respect, thus revealing their objectification of the female body. Pintel, the bellhop at the Broken Oar inn and nicknamed “the Snake” for his sleazy ways even revelled in this objectification and admired the Queen of Erebor’s barely draped female form through a gap in the shutters. By coincidence he caught an infection and lost sight in that eye soon afterwards and was henceforth known as Pintel “the One Eyed Snake”.

Fluffy, the warg whom Azgalia had raised by her own hand from a wobbly legged pup, had not been exercised enough since coming to the Mountain with her lady and was full of energy. Soon the two females, one waving her tail the other her braid in the wind, disappeared under the boughs of the Mirkwood. Little did they know how much the elves hated their kind, be it an invasion or unheralded Royal Visit.

 **Several days later**  
Azgalia may had left Erebor bare arsed and flashing her crack every time she rose in the stirrups but not empty handed. She had some indispensables in her saddle bags, like a brush or piece of soap. And other stuff like a firestater set, knives, salt, needle, or some thread. So camping out was not a problem. On her brother’s insistence she had been given field craft training to “toughen her up” and to make a “real lass” out of her. She really had hated Bolg for that. But that knowledge now became her salvation and she warmed towards her gruff brother.

After eating a small vertebrate nicely seared over a fire Azgalia decided that she could indulge in a wash. She stank. They – Fluffy was as good as a person to the kind hearted orcess – were camping next to a small waterfall. The stream was one of the many tributaries of the River Running flowing in a north-easterly direction from the Wood. Even with unimpressive rainfall the overall coolness of the climate made for a positive precipitation versus evaporation balance hence the abundant surface water runoff.

She stepped under the cascade of crystalline clean water. Cold too, as she was about to discover.  
“Morgoth! It was cold!”  
Azgalia let the water wet her body and sprang out and began to lather herself vigorously. The combination of the water and the chill in the air gave her goosebumps. Her kobicha coloured nipples poked out from her russet aureoles like gophers’ heads from their burrows.  
The goblin nipped back under the water to rinse and jumped out the soonest possible again. To regain her warmth and dry herself Azgalia began to sing and dance in the glade, enjoying its pristine and unspoilt beauty. The husky scent of forest flowers and the dancing and singing and feeling clean brought her to the edge of a spiritual experience. Little did she know that she was no longer alone ....

For a moment there a certain elven prince though he was Elu Thingol or Beren reborn. But after a moment he saw the devastating truth. He was not.  
“Huito! This was no Luthien! Huitohuitohuito! Not even a lowly Sylvan he could not pledge himself to!” – the disappointed ellon thought angry thoughts.  
What had cued in the keen eyed archer to his actual situation was the patch of beaver coloured curls at the junction of her legs which he noticed after tearing his eyes away from the prominent nipples gracing her pert boobies. No elleth had curls there! They had straight hair. Curls were for boys and straight was for girls! Everybody knew that! It was the way Illuvatar had made the elves. And the blond ellon had proof! More than 500 times had the trees of Mirkwood shed their leaves for winter since Legolas had began spying on bathing ellith and never had he seen any curls! And by now he must have had seen every she-elf of Mirkwood naked at least once!

He raised his bow and let loose to free Arda from one more specimen of orc filth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huito - a naughty word in Sindarin. Your mother would wash your mouth with soap if she caught you saying it.


	6. In the Glades of the Elven King

 Legolas raised his bow and let loose to free Arda from one more specimen of orc filth. At the same moment over 200 pounds of hairy fury slammed into his flank!

 “Daro!” – Fili roared in elvish into the Thranduilion’s ear.

 Fili had followed his wife into the Mirkwood hot on her heels on his pony Studly. Losing her trail almost immediately he began to roam the northern reaches of the woods hoping to find his beloved. He meandered from glade to glade, grassy clearing to grassy clearing where he fiddled and diddled on his fiddle. Fili forced the instrument to send out tones of heart wrenching music, dripping with longing and with remorse for a love lost, deep into the woods, to make Azgalia understand that he wanted her back. That he could not live without her. That without her life had no meaning. That without her the Sun did not shine. Neither did the Moon. That he ... that he loved her.

 He spent his nights tossing and turning, with the sight of Azgalia before his eyes. When dawn came Fili rose hastily, with his eyes red and cheecks puffed, and rode and played all day long like a dwarf possessed.

 Looking for a new clearing to set up shop and fiddle Fili heard a female’s voice. He dismounted for quicker movement in the undergrowth and pressed in the direction of the sound, his soul swelling with hope. Soon he was certain. It was HER! This also made him angsty and made him wonder "does she love him?". And if his hair and beard were all right? And did she love him? And will she approve of his choice of jacket and breeches? And did she love him?

 Reaching the edge of a dale graced with a small waterfall he felt like Beren reborn.  There was his Luthien, his wife, his Azgalia ... oh, how sweet to see her and to whisper:

 “My Azgalia ... my Luthien ... my One ...” – but will she want him?

 He stood and listened, his heart losing its last reservations towards her and opening itself in full to the gentle orcess. Ori, who to everybody’s surprise displayed unexpected depthof knowledge of goblin mating customs, had explained to him the nature of their marital misunderstanding. And that his wife was not, as he had thought, a vile hearted torturess, but a dove hearted goblin. Rare as hens teeth. Prcious. A treasure. And that he had presented himself to this delicate, sensitive creature as a typical, shallow male with a spleen bursting kink. Ugh! When queried as to the source of his knowledge Ori just smiled and said – “I’m well travelled.” – adding “hurr-hurr” and winking.

 Suddenly Fili’s dwarf senses alerted him to a somebody appearing on the edge of the glade. After a few moments the somebody raised a bow. This was enough for the dwarrow king. His love was in danger! A born sprinter Fili charged through the underbrush like an enraged mumak! He reached the archer in the nick of time, slamming into the bow-person’s side and making the arrow fly askew!

 As his arms embraced the elf – as it was an elf under the cloak – all conscious thought left Fili. Feeling the elf flesh in his grasp all he saw was red and he heard naught but the pounding of blood in his ears. The sensation of the warm body composed of long, smooth muscles encased in superbly tanned and soft leather pushed Fili over the edge of sanity. Fili’s soul screamed:

 KILL! BURN! MAIM! KILL! BURN! MAIM!

 and the Son of Durin (by distaff) went feral. What need for weapons if he had hands and teeth?

 Hearing the ruckus in the bushes – was it some wild animal? or maybe a lost puppy? - Azgalia stopped dancing and singing. She hesitantly minced her way towards the source of the sound.

 Once the two males tumbled into the open she gasped:

 “GASP!”

 She covered her breasts with her arms and daintily, demurely and defensively brought her thigh up to cover the entry to her secret womanly core.

 She gasped again:

  “GASP!”

 as she recognised that one of the entwined bodies grasping at one another was her husband. With male innate instinct for finding dirt Legolas and Fili had tumbled into the only puddle in several miles’ radius and were now wallowing in filth of their own making.

“MEN!” – Azgalia thought, as her brother was just the same sort of dirt magnet.

 With morbid fascination she watched the two males rip their clothes off one another, soon with only some rags covering them from the waist belt up. Her admiration for Fili grew seeing him take and deal damage, her intuition telling her that he was doing it for HER!

 This time male strength and savagery and violence did not repel her. This time the manliness sloshing inside Fili was used in a just cause, in defending the weak and innocent. Meaning her. She was weak – especially when compared to those two muscular specimens – and felt very innocent.  She raised a finger to her mouth to tug at her lower lip ... still keeping one leg slightly raised and in front she began to drill a hole in the ground with her big toe while swaying her torso side to side.

 “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!”

 Azgalia screamed as she felt a hot mouth close on her collar bone.

 


	7. In the Bushes of the Elvenking

 “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!”

 Azgalia screamed as she felt a warm mouth close on her collar bone.

 “Chill, Your Grace” – she heard a female voice.

The goblin turned, her heart still in her throat and still beating at a frenetic pace. She looked up – but not by much – at a short elleth with long erythraean hair and prominent ears.

“You ... you ... know of me?” – Azgalia asked the elf, garbed and equipped as a warrior.

The she-elf nodded.

“Since you arrived at Erebor we – the Forest Guard – were given standing orders not to shoot you on sight. Same applies to your warg. And I’m Tauriel, Ma’am.”

Azgalia, now with heartbeat almost normal, looked up sternly and crossed her eyes to indicate she was eying her clavicle.

 “And this ... disrespect for my person?”

 “Oh, that.” Tauriel grinned at her, a light blush colouring her cheeks. She lowered her head bashfully and kept her eyes behind the lush curtain of almost black eyelashes while she explained:

 “You have such sweet, delicious, pretty collar bones I could not resist a bite” – the elleth giggled, with a touch of nervousness in her mirth. “Will the orcess take offence?” – she finally wondered about her actions.

 “We Sylvan elves are a very touchy feely folk, always touching , always petting, always grooming one another’s hair, oh, that sort of thing, you get it?” – Tauriel gushed.

 Azgalia wondered at how similar sylvan elf and orc customs were. Was there a connection? Personally she was reserved and did not like her personal space being invaded.

 “Azgalia” – she introduced herself and the two women pecked one another on the cheek in manner of greeting and making acquaintance.

 The ginger now turned to Fluffy and addressed the warg in elvish. The warg, enthralled by the sounds of Sindarin, peed over the memory of the blood of hundreds of generations of wargs spilt in wars with the elves and was rubbing her flanks against the elleth’s legs, circling her, making the figure eight around her, wagging her tail like a runaway windmill and making whimpering noises. Simply pathetic ...

 “What’s her name?”

 “Fluffy.”

 “So Fluffy, who’s been a good girl? Who?” the elf murmured as she scratched the warg between the ears. This was pleasure overload for the simple bitch from Gundabad. She went boneless and collapsed, rolling belly up and shamelessly – as was typical of Gundabad wargs - begging for more. While she knelt and scratched Fluffy’s tummy Tauriel looked up at Azgalia and said:

 “No need to be shy” – alluding to her still huddled stance. “We are all girls here, the warg included” she giggled– “we’ve all got the same T&T.”

 “Tee and tee?” – the confused orcess asked.

 “Tits and twat.” – this time the elf definitely belly chuckled.

 Azgalia felt herself warming to the long eared elf. Her earthy humour was so very much like home, not the prim and proper dwarrow who would faint if they were heard farting. She thought of her mother-in-law and snorted.

 A new series of curses and grunts from the males attracted the ladies’ attention.

 “Nice bums on the two of them. I’d just love to fondle their arses” - the new arrival commented wistfully. And made grasping gestures with her delicate albeit strong hands.

 “Maybe I’d even tug at something too, tee-hee”– the she elf giggled while hiding her mouth behind her slender fingers tipped with porraceous nails and winked at the orc lass.  

  “Yet I prefer the leaner meat, if you understand my meaning” – Tauriel chuckled with a twinkle in her eye.

 For some time the nubile females enjoyed the view. The males were enthusiastically going at one another, their bodies slick with a mixture of sweat, blood and moisture from other sources. Their clothing was in tatters and they were now mostly clad in boots.

 Unaware that they were mirroring one another, the two maidens sighed and licked their lips while gazing at flaying limbs and ... appendages. 

 Fili pinned Legolas to the ground and in spite of the Sinda’s sinuous movements managed to keep the glistening with slick elf’s body underneath him. The dwarf tried to headbutt and smash the elf’s nose but the elf – pinned or not – managed to evade the mallet like forehead of the king of Erebor.

 Looking at the struggling bodies Azgalia began to have interesting thoughts about herself and Fili. About her and Fili together. With Fili pining her down ...  she felt heat enter her face and nethers and crossed her legs ...

 “You his cow?” – the elf nudged Azgalia’s ribs with her elbow.

 Azgalia inhaled in indignation at the insult. She was about to swing and knock the bitch's teeth out when the elf continued, oblivious of how close she had skirted having the orc's fury unleashed on her.

 “I can see it in your _fea_. We Sylvan elves are very clever in noticing such things. The Sindar – those rotters, innit - may look down on us but we know a lot they don’t. I can see that you and that fine hammed young bull there are bonded. But it is only the ellith who are so clever.”

 The friendly Sylvan continued.

 “We can see who is an item with whom, as well as two or three relationships into the past. The ellyn, however ...” she pursed her lips and sniggered - “the thick headed sods can barely tell if they even ARE in a relationship, let alone notice anything about anybody else. Self centred gits!” - she sniggered as she threw her hair over her shoulder. 

 Her disparaging comments on ellyn perceptiveness notwithstanding, the Sylvan’s pupils nonetheless dilated at the sight of Legolas' strained muscles, with bluish streaks of raised veins as he attempted to break Fili’s leg by bending it the _other_ way. Or at least twist the ligaments at the knee. She crossed her legs.

 The orcess wound down and exhaled. It was not an insult then, but a manner of speech. How appropriate, such rustic imagery from the unsophisticated elleth.

 “Cow, eh? Brazen little tramp!” – still seething at the “c” word Azgalia asked sweetly:

 “Oh, what an unusual nail colour! The zits I popped last week were almost identical in hue!”

 Tauriel lifted her hand and straitened the palm and fingers, spreading the fingers out like a duck spreads its webbed feet when landing on water, and admired her porraceous nails.

 “Oh, its part of field craft, you daft moo! Camouflage!” and giggled while she wriggled her finely boned fingers.

 Meanwhile wallowing in the grass Legolas had released the dwarve’s lower limb - the King of Erebor had gripped the Prince of Mirkwood’s crotch in a “let loose or lose” hold. Now the two warriors were again uncoupled and were circling one another, panting and snarling with feral expressions at one another.

 The Queen of Erebor could take it no longer. The throb of her womanly core drove her wild. She strode into the clearing, shoved Legolas – who happened to stand in her way – out of the way – not even registering the fact – as she made a beeline to hubby.

 There Azgalia stood and stretched to her full height in front of him.

 “Husband. You. Me. NOW!”

 She grabbed his hand and yanked him towards the bushes.

 “Oh, my! I’m dragging a _dwarf_ into the bushes! I’m such a tart!” – the thought flashed through her mind and disappeared immediately, burned out by her raging desire for a fuck. She was cockstruck and she knew it.

 Once the vegetation had closed behind them she roughly pushed Fili to the ground and knelt on one knee on his chest to keep him down on his back. Azgalia’s foofaracha was wet beyond reason and her folds were fully unfurled flashing Fili with a fine line of fuchsia flesh as she crouched above him, taking her aim.  She dutifully impaled herself. Her honeyed walls slid smoothly down the generous girth of her husband’s engorged and already weeping with barely constrained anticipation ding-dong.

 “YES!”  - her screech of delight could be heard from the Halls of the Elven King to the Withered Heath and from Erebor to Gundabad.

 

 

**AN:**

 I patterned Sylvan elf behaviour on Chimpanzees.

 I wish to thank the authors of various erotic scenes posted on FFN for providing me with a wealth of fortunate - or less fortunate – metaphors to rip off.

 “Your Grace” was the term of address of King of England until the Welsh upstart, Tudor, demanded to be called “majesty”.

 Range of Azgalia broadcasting her orgasm – there IS magic in the Middle Earth, you know ...

 


	8. At the South Gate of Erebor

 

**About seventy years later, 3019 TA, March, Erebor**

 

 Azgalia stood at the gate of The Mountain. Together with other ladies of rank she stood on a platform next to the gate of Erebor. They were to witness the marching out of Erebor forces and allied or hired Mannish units. Their destination was not far away. They were marching for the Long Lines of Dale, fortifications connecting the town’s walls with the South and South East Spurs of the Mountain. This created an large triangle of open ground, already harbouring refugees from villages a week’s travel away.

 

As the lady of highest rank it was for her to signal the orchestra to stand blaring out the beat of marching music. Azgalia was flanked by her sister-in-law, Kala, the second in the pecking order. Kala might be the mother of the heir, Kalanetik, but Azgalia was the Queen. She gave the sign and readied herself for the assault upon her ears – the acoustics in the concave hollow next to the South Gate were such that it amplified the sounds.

 

While the melodies varied, the instruments produced a beat of 110 steps a minute. When a unit approached a red line inlaid in the flagstones of the road the unit commander barked out “marching step”. From that moment onward the warriors raised their legs knee high and then brought their feet down flat, with toes extended forward, producing an ear pleasing metallic slap of hobnails upon the stone and an eye pleasing, ballet like smoothness of movement. Erebor Dwarrow and the Men of Dale whom they influenced liked to march in style!

 

The first to march out was the Royal Standard detail, headed by the Heir. Then came the Royal Guard, with the King himself. Azgalia looked down with pride at her husband, resplendent in armour of finest make. A dwarf in his prime he was, his blond hair long and beard lavish, his limbs stout and powerful. He waved and grinned at her and she could not but stem the wave of warmth.  Then came her moment of a mother’s pride. The Guard was led by another of her nephews-by-marriage, Erobik, but the whole front rank were her sons!

 

All a head taller than their father and almost as broad in the shoulders. The “little trolls” they were called by the inhabitants of Erebor, fondly by some, with venom by others. Nevertheless they were all were to fight around King Fili as his shieldwall. Helmets with nasal, mail hauberks to their knees and a shield on their left shoulder. With their dworc features hidden under deep helms, they looked like Dwarow warriors ultimate, even if on the tallish side – or they would have, had they not come back from their fostering at Gundabad with a love for the “choppa”, a single edged reversed sabre, called _falcata_ by scholars in an another universe far away. No axes or mattocks, the weapons of choice for the dwarrow for them. Choppa or nothing! Pride in them and worry for them fought in her for the better.

 

 

She waved and nodded at the passing units. Azgalia had reserved a discrete glare for one of the archer detachments – she could not express her disfavour to the whole unit so first she smiled at the unit and then singled out her daughter Bolga for a glare. She was still angry at Bolga’s insistence to go to war. But Azog’s grandchild could not be denied that. Nonetheless she felt a mother’s concern for her welfare. And she was already beginning to forgive her everything as long as she returned safe. Bolga march proud, a head and neck taller than her fellow archers, pounding the pavement in the special stiff-knee gait with gusto. At least had enough sense to keep out of melee units, Azgalia sniffed while she dabbed at her eyes. Most of her remaining six daughters were doing same, for their brothers and for their boyfriends amongst the Men of Dale. Her eldest, Bograka, was already married to King Brand’s 2nd son, Brain. Another, Ashgrak, was being courted by the noble Flotsam of Laketown. Bograka had come to Erebor for the send off from Dale where she normally dwelled. Azgalia beamed at the willow haired, blue eyed girl at Ashgrak’s side, her first grandchild. And cooed at her when nobody was looking.

 

 The field where the units were arranged before the parade was empty with the departure of the last unit. The crowd knelt as the doughty warriors marched by, a honour not awarded to any formation, even the King himself. These were the Old Grumps, the Expendables, going to war. None of them younger than 200, many of them grandfathers who had passed on their workshops to their children. While still at the fullness of strength and mental capabilities all they had to look for in the near future were their Twilight Years. Almost from day to day they would weaken, become infirm, toothless and confined to eating gruel, not making it to the privy on time and descending into making lewd proposals to their granddaughters whom they no longer recognised.  This slide was rapid, often taking less than ten years. The oldies felt that a quick death was better. They were invariably assigned to positions where retreat was not an option, or death a certainty and not a possibility.

 

Azgalia knelt as her father-in-law Wili passed the podium. Widowed by Dis a decade ago he had just entered his Twilight Years but already was “not always there”. Today was his "good day" and he was fully aware of events. He positively glowed as he marched towards certain death.

 

.

 

**AN:**

 

Dwarrow aging according to Tolkien.

 

Puberty at 30, grown up at 40, married around 100, at 240 go gaga and die at 250. Full strength from 40 to 240.

 

Azgalia and Fili have 13 living children between 40 and 70.

The Long Lines of Dale are patterned after the Long Walls of Athens.

 

 


End file.
